Lily followed easily enough, but her voice was uncertain as they made the first turn. “We’ll get lost.”
“No,” he said easily. “I found it this afternoon and explored it then. It’s simple enough.”
“Even in the dark.”
“Even in the dark,” he assured her. “But it’s not quite dark, is it?” He pointed up at the stars and the crescent moon.
“Humph.” She didn’t sound entirely reassured, but she followed him nonetheless, and that made him glad.
The maze was an old one with a fully matured hedge over eight feet tall. In places the hedge threatened to grow into the path and he had to lead her single file, but she never protested. He could hear the rustle of her skirts, the sound of her breathing right behind him, and once in a while her scent came to him, orange and clove, tantalizing and sweet.
He tightened his grip on her hand.
By the time he turned the final corner he was heavy and hard.
“Where are we?” she whispered, as if she knew the import of this place. Of where he’d brought her and why.
Before them was a shallow stone pool, rimmed with stone benches, a statue standing at the center. It had probably once been a fountain, but time and neglect had stopped it running, and now it was dry save for a few rotting leaves blown against the edges.
“We’re at the heart,” he replied, his throat thick.
She tugged his hand as she stepped closer to the stone pool. She stared at the statue and then back at him. “The heart of the maze?”
He looked into her eyes, reflecting the starlight, the entire universe, really, and nodded. “The heart.”
She stood still a moment, watching him, and he had no idea at all what she was thinking.
Finally she laughed quietly, gesturing with her free hand at the marble figure. “It’s a minotaur. I suppose that’s appropriate.”
He looked at the figure, all horns and massive shoulders. “The monster in the maze?”
“Yes.” She turned in the dark to face him, and all he could see was the limned starlight on her cheek, the glimmer of the reflected moon in her eyes. “Indio thought you were a monster at first. Did I ever tell you?”
He shook his head slowly. “Am I still a monster to you?”
“No.” She reached up to trace his eyebrow. “You’re not… that. You never were, really.”
And she pulled his head down to meet her mouth. She kissed him with a woman’s passion, a woman’s want, frank and sweet. He fought to keep from grasping, from holding too tight, lest the very harshness of his grip drive her from him.
He let her lead, opening his mouth when her tender tongue ran across his lips. Let her explore and seek. She thrust her hands into his hair, pulling the tie out, framing his face with his coarse locks.
“Apollo,” she breathed against him, her hands restless on his waistcoat. “Apollo, make love to me.”
It was all he was waiting for. He pressed her against him, angling his head to deepen the kiss. He placed his palm over her upper chest, feeling the delicate collarbone beneath his fingers, the gentle swell of her breast. Even this little amount of flesh was like wine in the desert. He traced the edge of her bodice, dipping his little finger into the hot, shadowed recess between her breasts. It was moist there and suddenly he had to taste. He bent her back, ducking his head to slide his tongue between her sweet breasts and taste her salt.
“Apollo,” she moaned, grasping his hair. “Please.”
He licked up over her breasts, finding the rise of her shoulder and biting there.
Her fingers moved in a shaking flurry between them and he realized she was scrabbling at his falls, but before he could help her, she had them open.
Had them open and had him in her hand.
He froze, groaning, trembling at her touch. Her cool fingers circled him confidently, stroking up once before caressing his head, exploring where he wept liquid tears.
She pulled one hand away and he saw, in the moonlight, as she drew a single wet finger to her lips and sucked.
That was too much.